Hollowed Out
by CataclysmicReality
Summary: Follow the uniqueness of a living hollow as he searches for the meaning to his existence. Will tie in with the manga sometime after the Soul Society Arc. Revised to lessen initial confusion and add more base detail.
1. Begginings

The rain falls as it has always fallen, and its given presence bathed in the light of the clouds' accompanying lightning only serves to give it all the more notice. Not that rain needs notice, as too little in an area of drought will be praised and lauded savior, while too much in an area of saturation shall come to be known as a plague upon the land… a destroyer… while in other parts, it is just unwelcome. For in the city streets below, the rain is nothing more than a burden. As the figure well above the streets could relate, tonight's rain was nothing more than an annoyance.

Even so, rain soaked and uncomfortable… he was happy.

The years of confinement had passed, and change was about the air… or rather, things were starting to move. Actually, that wasn't right either. For things had already moved, which pushed him from hiding and into the open once again.

Things had brought him here after all… back to Tokyo.

He couldn't help but smile a hidden smile. Even with the world a complex networking of crimson pulses, the rain and its effect didn't change. Nor did it change that of the city and its complex simplicity.

It didn't even change the memory…

Rather, other than the color change, this was almost exactly like that time… almost.

* * *

Chapter 1: **Begginings**

-Ten years ago-

_Rain falls._

_It seems like it always does… these days._

_Has it been a week… two weeks? Maybe even three? Has it?_

_That long… it could be. _

_Regardless, I don't know. _

_It seems like an eternity… me, staring at the city skyline. The bright lights, the tall buildings and the blue colors… the white colors… it doesn't matter. _

_That city… a city that looks peaceful. Should be peaceful, as it is christened the "City of brotherly Love"… or something like that. Philadelphia… More fitting would be the "city of fat people" the people hold onto the principles of the marks of the independence which they hold onto… yet realize none of the meaning associated. _

_It must be nice. _

_I… actually wouldn't mind living in that city. But that's merely a pipe dream. After all… there's nothing left for those like me, who live on the "other side"._

_Heh… what is this 'other side'? _

_What isn't it? _

_Other side of life, of law, of right. The other side of happiness, of hope, of family. The other side of the river?_

_I don't know… we just tend to call this place Camden… Camden, New Jersey. _

_It's funny… In all of the U.S., out of all the cities and the scum that live there… Camden is top dog… and has been. For the many years I've lived here. The most dangerous. _

_It's too funny… and it's sad._

_But I see it… I see it everyday._

_This place is shit._

_During the daylight, it is literally a ghost town. Streets are mainly empty, sidewalks are barren. Parking lots are deserted, buildings look derelict and abandoned. You'd think you were in another country entirely… I don't understand._

_At least I didn't… until I lost everything._

_I lost my one person… I lost my life… my Katrina… my only light._

_I've lost my heart._

…_now there's nothing left for me._

_Nothing but darkness in what was life. _

_An empty shell of an existence. I feel… _

…_Hollowed out…_

With that last thought lingering in his mind, the young man closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold bricks of the building behind him.

Fool as he was, with no care for thoughts of self or even to seek shelter, he had settled for the alley as a resting spot. One with view of the city across the river, where he could see it even through the rain. While above his head, a partially covered floor of a fire escape landing provided his only roof. And the garbage cans at his side the only friends.

There wasn't even a rat to pass by. Not even a stray.

He had nothing.

Nothing save for his memories and his clothes, which were soaked through and cold, clinging to his clammy skin in the early spring chill. And even then, they weren't much for him.

Black and torn, his t-shirt clung to him faithfully, doing its best to hide his defined chest and abdomen from the elements… but failing miserably. Equally failing were his faded jeans and his makeshift belt. As well his worn Nikes and socks.

Aside from his clothes, he was just as equally un-kept in his appearance. With his brown hair all matted and disheveled, his sculpted face made worn by his fatigue and famine, and his unshaven stubble giving him all the characteristics of a depleted and abandoned fighter. For though weakened to the state of nothing more than trash, he held scars upon his hands and exposed body that held scars of combat. Of a past that spoke of days that consisted of events more than wasting away with rain and dirt, days that spoke volumes of invigoration.

Surely now… days like that were gone forever.

Surely.

It wasn't that his body was the sole proof, or even that his mind was failing him… rather, that his soul itself felt heavy… it felt dead. With dead weight like that, how could one even think of living? How could the body even think to breathe?

…

How could it take the essentials away, yet leave the pain the only part left?

He grimaced as his face screwed up in pain and his eyes and teeth clenched close. His heart… it hurt. His soul's heart hurt… if possible. He gripped the wet cloth tightly to his throbbing chest as another wave came again, more vicious than the first. A pain that pushed out his tears and lolled him into unconsciousness darkness.

A darkness that embraced him wholly.

* * *

In a world of darkness, naught is light… for light is a distraction to the waking world. Light is what makes the world run, keeps it active. In the world of light, people strive to live as only those who live go. But such is never true for the world of darkness… a world in which sleep is the precedent, and dreams are life. No mention of pain seeps into the thought of the world of this all encompassing darkness, for pain is for those living. 

The dead have no pain.

Yet to embrace the darkness is to lose pain… or so thought the man who arrived. Yet to compound his grievances, he learned far too well that the darkness he had found neither brought death, nor relieved his pain.

Rather… the truth was far from it.

* * *

A silent scream of agony tore lose from the core of the man's throat, of his being. 

Doubled over in pain, his path to the darkness did nothing for his heart… for its throbbing he felt against his ribs was a pain solely matched by the pounding in his ears and against his temples. That, and another feeling, a sensation that as much as he chose to fall he could not. As much as he wished to put his hands to his head to contain his very brain which threatened forced exit from his skull, he could not!

Why not?

For the love of anything or one holy, for the sake of all that was held dear… why?

Unable to move, unable to voice pain or despair. Shackled by invisible manacles and binding chains, he struggled for naught. His very process in itself a vain and hopeless action of a forgotten reaction that had long since crumbled to dust.

And why was that? Why could it? Nothing he did made sense in the world where he was simply blind to the light that he had long abandoned. For it became all the more clear as his face ran with a pulsating warm fluid, his mouth and lips bleeding the same.

Then he doubled over, as much as impossible as before it was something changed, and he was able to choke upon the bile that had instantaneously come to his mouth. The very bindings upon him allowed him to grasp at his chest and seize upon that which had been inhumanly inserted within his chest, and bolted on with a plate of metal so cold that he felt his fingertips grow numb at the touch of it.

Shock and recoil could neither befuddle nor deter his action as he groped the darkness, wiped the blood away from his eyes and spat that which clogged his mouth. Found his query and wrapped his hands about that chain that kept itself fastened to him, locked within him.

That which bound him would keep him prisoner no more!

Free is the one who removes the chains that bind and progress on! Free is he who chooses. Free is the person who delivers pain upon themselves to deliver their spirit free from that which forever grounds the heart. That pain itself that holds his heart in the cavity that was once a chest with which his love comforted herself against.

In this end, his intentions were still the will for her and her alone. For she, the one who had already saved his life before, and the only one to give him passion.

She… Katrina, the only one to care.

For her, his action was made. His mind was clear. And the pain which he held in his chest…

…was overwhelming.

Given no further option, he pulled hard… as the pain screamed release… and the blackness of the eternal night, burned red.

* * *

The image of red faded from his eyes as they opened slowly and grasped the coolness of that rainy night. 

A night still with rain.

But finally… for whatever the reason, his pain had subsided… for the moment. As any indication his hands gave, their shaking could only mean a temporary reprieve. Surely…

…pain would come again...

…and…

He stopped.

Though the quick pace of his heart was drowning out most other sounds of the night, he swore he was hearing literal absurdities. He swore he could hear the shadows… moving…

No.

It was a lie… had to be a lie.

He wasn't messed up like this; he didn't suffer delusions and wasn't tortured by dreams like this.

Katrina…

When Katrina was… alive, he didn't have this, and he shouldn't have it now.

It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

Nothing… nothing at all!

Without discerning his next action, he lashed out in pain at the nearest object to deliver abuse, and sent a trashcan reeling across the alley, littering junk along its path before coming to a loud and drawn-out stop at the other side.

It was funny, and because of it he started laughing to himself. His hand was so numb from the rain and cold, that he couldn't even feel the strike. He had no feelings in his nerves.

Then why…?

Why did he hurt so much if he was already beyond pain? It… it…

It made no sense.

Pain gripped him, hounded him… yet he was free of pain.

Impossible!

Was it his mind in which the pain located, hid itself? Was his mind the sole bearer of his agony and his body silent, or was it his mind numbed and his body screaming?

Too many questions… emotions, feelings…

He gripped his head in the madness of the moment. Did it throb? Cause pain? Disillusion, disorient, or dislocate thought and the reason behind it?

And this pulsing... the pulsing from dreams dreamt came forth from the sleeping world to the land of the waking. Granted not all at once, yet seemed to bleed/seep into this world through the gateway of subconscious thought, a backdoor of reality… reality displaced from logic and reason. A pulsing not just of his eyes, which seemed to submerge into red darkness periodically at random, but his body or the essence of it, which resonated separately from his physicality.

It wasn't that it wasn't normal, as nothing was to begin with, but it felt more distant than anything else. More alien.

What was it… what was happening to him?

_K-Katrina… help… m-_

"GAAH!" he screamed short for temporary release, spraying saliva and spit from his already foaming mouth, as though he wasn't simply ill, but rabid as an alley dog. Some of the thicker white foam falling away as he seized and doubled over. The flashing pulses in his vision and body core getting worse.

It felt like any given moment would be his last.

Mentally succumbing, he prepared for the worst, and welcomed the unseen death.

A death which journey fell interrupted at an approach in the darkness. An approach heralded by a voice he had come to hate.

"Heh", came a snide and uncompassionate laugh that floated upon the still night air. Air which was free of the rain which had hindered him so, though when it had stopped, he didn't know. Knowing was an impossibility after all.

"What the hell is this? I come to the streets and find that a dirty stray has dirtied my turf with its shit." The man, still tucked in the shadows, motioned to the pain stricken mass in front of him. He then turned to his companions, which exact number was yet unknown. "What the fuck did you give him! That and the dose… if he ODs on that shit then there's no fucking way in hell he'll have any worth.

"Not that he had any to begin with." He bent down and grabbed the pained man's hair and wrenched his head until their eyes met. "Isn't that right? Taylor…"

The eyes filled with pain could do nothing to help their owner, let alone the owner to give enough strength to voice a reply. Given the silence in the moments that followed, the hostile figure released his query's hair and threw him aside.

"Pathetic…" he growled low in disgust. "To think I had thought better of you all those years ago. Still pathetic…" he voiced in a lighter tone of reminiscence, "but the potential was there. Then again, it wasn't there at all. No, a stray is a stray 'til his dying days, yet those of the smarter caliber pack together to tackle the larger prey, scavenge a bigger area, have strength in numbers… and… only go alone if they go towards death."

The sky chose that moment to part its clouds just enough to wash the ambient light of the moon over the alley, bathing all members of its party in fleeting luminescence. Seven figures regarding the eighth body of the fallen man, still shaking with man and wet numbness through his body.

That aside, of the seven themselves, there was no clear appearance in apparel or self that gave them any distinction of being part of the same group other than the fact that all wore the common street clothes of the mid '90s, though most physical aspects were concealed by clothing, hats, and hoods protecting them from chill and rain. In retrospect, only one seemed to expose his head completely to the elements. One dressed mostly in clothes that all but became black in the shadows of the night, jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket.

Splashed with what little light available, a young man's face worth with hardships of life. Short, black hair, cold eyes, and a sinister smile, as well as the simple fact that he seemed delighted simply to hear himself speak. It was the same man who continued to speak now.

"For whatever the reason, it seems as though your days of survival nears a close. I've said it before, but this is your last chance." He paused and extended his arm to the man shaking before him. "Self survival is simply not possible. You run with us, I can give you a future; I can erase your past. I can give survival.

"Otherwise you'll die a dog's death. Just like that bitch before you!"

The shaking man's eyes widened slightly as he struggled to speak the name of his love. And only managed with a shadow of his former voice. "K-k-katri-na…"

Even though she was gone, even if she was beyond his reach, he felt as to say her name was to move closer to her being. Closer to the world she was a part of, closer to the world beyond this one.

"Heh…" laughed the leader, "I told you already, Scott Taylor. She's dead… left you… she couldn't even take care of herself. How could you even think of her after leaving you to rot?"

"S-she… was my… everything." Scott proclaimed, his level of defense rising, as he pushed against the ground which he lay upon. "I would… gladly give myself to her… trade places… just if it meant so much as a passing word. Again!"

"ENOUGH!" The man in the leather jacket swooped down upon Scott and grabbed him the front of his shirt and pushed him up against the wall, knocking aside what garbage cans sat there and spreading additional mounds of trash across the alley. The light of the moon long since faded as the darkness became all the more overbearing.

"That girl… that fucking bitch!" spat the man angrily as he slammed Scott once again into the wall, with enough force that his skull could be heard resounding off the brick face. "Fucking forget it! Fuck her! Any 'memories' you have are nothing but shit stains! I alone can give way to a future, I alone can give you the drugs to put the past behind you! Money, drugs, food, anything…" He stopped his raging long enough to gather his cool again, and to collect his wits. "Just quit fucking around…"

Whatever the reason, Scott could do nothing but smile. Though the pain now numbed from the assault, he felt his conscience sliding into the darkness of mental oblivion, and the world from his eyes was left awash with the waves of red pulses from before.

All in all… it seemed like nothing mattered anymore.

Loathe as he was to admit it… Katrina was dead. She was never coming back to him. That was the simple truth of reality. But that was one truth he didn't want to accept, regardless of the level of truth behind it. To him… Katrina was alive… still alive… even though he couldn't see her.

Even though she wasn't there…

Even though…

He stopped, and the smile faded from his face.

Between every pulse of red, he could see something there that wasn't there. He saw again that which had been lost in the distraction before. He could see the shadows. And they were…

Moving.

Rather, a trick of the light? No… there was no light. And these shadows… were white?

His eyes widened, and the pulses seemed to increase with his heartbeat. Pulses of red. White shadows. Moving figures behind those of the living.

Or was that wrong? That there were only seven before? And not ten? Or was it fifteen?

People bathed in white light. The seven before bathed in redness from the pulses… like infrared only not with heat… with… blood? The absence of it? He held up his shaking hands, in which every pulse he could see his veins exposed as though the skin wasn't there. Yet it was incomplete… as were the other seven.

He grabbed his chest. His heart… no… or was it… his lungs? Regardless, his chest hurt. It was hard to breathe.

So hard… to breathe!

What was happening… to him?

Drugs… he had received drugs? Hallucinogens… manufactured, chemical? But even so, why the endless pain? No, this wasn't related; it felt more like a heart attack. Like his heart, was going to explode… disappear.

_Why… Katrina!_

At that thought, he looked up… just as spiritual fire burned an unseen hole in his chest. And among the people gathered in the crowd of white, one of a golden aura caught his eye, and smiled.

A young woman with long trailing sunlit brown hair that flowed as though part of the wind, over the delicate but resiliently beautiful muscles of her upper back and past the upper cut of the low sweeping silken nightgown. With a soft, yet firm face and keen yet gentle deep blue eyes. Those factors coupled with a moderate figure and a footfall that would leave moss untouched, she was surely that of an angel come to Earth.

_KATRINA!_

Impossible… then he was…

He grabbed his head in agony as the last remainder of the spiritual flame died out in his chest, and his world and vision plunged into spiritual hell.

There he saw his love covered in blood, yet smiling with eyes full of more life than she had when alive. She was older, but not by that many years, and standing in a sea of white skull-like masks of vast variety in shape and size. All around her were signs of death and debauchery. Yet more than anything else, the feeling he felt at the time was the best he ever had… it was of freedom.

A freedom that came with a plunge into a brighter light than the sun.

Though a light that left deliver into a world as desolate as the one before. A world of masks… broken and whole, and the creatures that bore them fighting for dominance of all and everything.

And the last look upon the face of his beloved was one of horror, as one of the masked beings descended from the darkness… stark white save for the emerald eyes and the blood-stained distended jaws.

Just before pained nothingness.

* * *

"GYAAAAAAHH!" 

An ungodly scream ripped through his throat as he opened his eyes again to the waking world, his physical heart threatening to break his ribs, and an agonizing pain more severe than any of the night thus far. Pain which as indescribable as pain could be, combining internal and surface as his internals literally felt as though they were being scooped out from the inside, as though something beneath everything was attempting to break free, and an overwhelming restriction in complete being.

Was this it? Was this death… because for whatever pains that racked him, he felt his world slipping away… as though conscious thought was no longer a restrain for which he had to entertain as a notion of the living. He felt like this struggle to the end was over… and he had already lost.

For to confirm it all, through his final washes of sight, Katrina dissolved from his vision and trailed away in a forgotten and tantalizing golden light.

A golden thread of life… fleeting and forgotten.

Despite his thrashing agony, he smiled.

It was over.

* * *

Time as an independent has no structure but to those who have chance to behold it. For what in reality passes as mere minutes, to those of those minutes, it could feel as though an eternity had passed them by… 

…In just a single heart beat.

Where in just that passing moment, reality as it exists, could pass unfazed… or in this instant, completely unravel.

To the man known as Scott Taylor, who stood amidst the bloodied bodies, spent bullets, and confused senses, reality as it was… no longer had any meaning. Where the only truths to be concerned with now took the form of a black hilted, silver and gold double edged broad sword imbedded in the ground beside him, and the form-fitting, eye-less… mouth-less…

…white mask, which upon his face… served as the only protection he had left….

…from the harsh realities he had escaped, and the unknown future which waited in the darkness.

* * *

A/C 9/16/06: To those following the previous version of this story, I apologise, but it was a little too sparse on detail and made it difficult to continue. Rather than send the story to oblivion, I chose to start again in the style I'm more used to. So hopefully this story will progess steadily once I catch up to the prior point. Due to sheer length increase... it may take a little while yet. (But better than no update ever again) 


	2. Dual Fates

Chapter 2: **Dual Fates**

Scott shifted his body and tentatively put a hand to the glass of the window; as though to snatch the passing landscape that he now left behind him forever.

A life of wishing wasted on a dream that never was anything but nothingness.

But that was reality… his and everybody else's.

…

Still… he had already accomplished the first step, in simply crossing the boundaries of his youth, and crossed the 'other' side.

However, even with that truth spread before him – surrounding him – even it seemed a forgotten importance. Obsolete.

…Like most things…

With a distant thought lingering in his mind he retracted his hand and curled his fingers as though to claw something, yet simply stared… as though attempting to reason with the very appearance. An appearance that was simply not lost as dirt was to warm water.

A hand that yet its unblemished appearance still bore the unmistakable stains of reality… a reality that plunged itself into the gore of nightmare. Back into the bloodied confusion of the night past… of the lives taken and the present lost in the confusion of the unknown future.

A forced glimpse of events passed.

A glimpse of the night before…

* * *

_It was over._

The thought came to mind just as though his body had accepted its death, despite the obvious lack of evidence as to why it should even be in that state at all.

Yet such was life, and equally death. Without Katrina he was nothingness given form. A body without soul.

Such was not living, and thus he'd resolved to give up on it all. He had made his decision.

And surprisingly… it calmed him.

A change that must have shown outwardly than just in his mind, for the man in the leather jacket came forward in a much more subdued manner than before.

"It seems that whatever your issues, you are over it." He paused briefly, simply to confirm this if nothing else. Satisfied by the lack of violent response, he knelt to one knee for better perspective and spoke with renewed confidence. "If it's true that rational thought has returned to that burned out body, then I suppose that you'll have something to tell me now."

Scott chuckled with humorless intent as he opened his pained eyes, which once again saw normal colors and visuals.

It was true that the pain of before had suddenly dissolved, but something else emerged in its place, something far more sinister and feral. Something empty inside him. Something that made his whole body tingle and burn with a sensation he himself had no recollection of.

Something that just didn't fear consequences… or even fear itself.

Just impulse.

He smiled. "I have."

"And your response?" the man inquired.

"I…" Scott smiled despite his weariness. "…refuse."

"What?" The man stood and his face fell sour. He turned to his allies and two stepped forward, hands reaching under the folds of their clothes. "Your reason? It isn't that little bitch again?"

"Heh… Katrina wouldn't have… so I… I have no interest. I don't need you to survive."

The man's eyes shimmered with a hint of rage for a moment before he abated the reaction in favor of one last amused response.

"No… even though she herself… has already died…" As to his unfinished statement, Scott's smile of lunacy was more than enough. He raised his hand and his men took out their polished .45's and aimed them at center mass.

"She is dead… just so you know."

"Ah…" said Scott in a far off voice. "Then I might as well… die… as well…"

"Sadly, I'm forced to agree with you." He nodded his head. "Do it."

Without a final word, Scott smiled one last pained smile and closed his eyes.

Two shots echoed in the darkness of the night, and then the world returned to the false peace that accompanied the forced silence.

Indifferent to the scenario in its entirety, the man in the leather jacket turned away from the assumed corpse and motioned to his men to follow in suit, yet upon his command, neither did they obey, nor did they even seem to see it, as their eyes were upon something else entirely.

"Wha-" started the one, taking a step back. The other simply following his companion's momentary retreat.

For before them there was not a corpse, or the ruin of a man with life's light extinguished, rather what may not be a man at all.

"Sloppy…"

The man with the jacket stopped. That voice… _Impossible…_

"Heh, heh… yeah… I don't seem to understand myself." Came the voice of a man whose pain choked words from before seemed a completely different person speaking. "But whatever… the point being, that your men can't aim worth shit."

Scott grinned with unfamiliar satisfaction as his visual world began to sink back into that ocean of red pulsing. Though, just before expression was lost, the sight of the firm, expressionless hard-ass before him made something in his blood tingle with a burning sensation different from the pained feelings of earlier. And it seemed to set whatever inner madness aflame.

Dumbfounded, the men stared on as the one before them – the weak, maddened, and dying man of earlier – got to his knee, even with the shot wounds still bubbling fresh blood from his abdomen. Though, equally disheartening were those same bloodied bullets resting next to him, flattened as though having hit reinforced armor… but without any such existence in view. Save for a thin golden haze, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing out… yet, everything was wrong.

The man in the leather jacket stepped back. "You…"

Scott smiled. The features of his face slowly disappearing as a solid white substance seemed to push itself outward from his skin, yet there was no obvious interaction between the two.

"Me."

Without any indication of plan, he reached out to the air in front of his face and curled his fingers as though wrapping them about a shaft or pipe, just as his face was lost beneath a white barrier of a form-fitting substance that preserved every contour of his face, from his chin, along his jaw-line, over his nose and eyes, to his forehead, before breaking off past the top of his head as though a sculpted inverse face shield. However, where there should be a mouth, there was nothing of the sort, simply sealed in the whiteness of the thing that could only be described as a mask. The same could be said of the eyes, where though there was a depression for where the eyes would be, again, it was sealed off. Almost as though both mouth and eyes were covered with wax to render useless.

A white mask of such purity and distinction, to call it a skull would be injustice.

There was simply no classification.

"Scott… you…"

'_I… am reborn. And…_'

"You… freak…"

'…_so is…_'

"Enough!" He turned to his men who seemed to be too confused for conclusive thought. "Ki-"

'_Katrina._'

"-ll him!"

The moment the guns raised level, Scott sprung forward, pushing off the ground with explosive speed, his hand no longer gripping the air, as the void began to fill with that of a black and gold handle, and he was half way to those same men as their fingers began to pull and the handle grew an intricate black, silver, and gold dual edged broad sword blade, from the nothingness of a moment ago. And it was the exact moment of the firing, that the world seemed to plunge into a slow motion ballet.

Free from the confines of their respective chambers, the bullets spiraled through the air, their complex interaction with the air an impressive but albeit, unnecessary appreciation, as they streaked towards their target. A target which at the same moment brought the handle forward with both arms, the trailing blade swiftly evading the second bullet, as the first plowed into the left forearm of its target, only to dramatically change direction as it gracefully deflected along the length of the arm, leaving a torn path in the rendered flesh it left behind. While the target itself twisted upon an undefined axis and cleaved that of the second gun, and its wielder neatly in two, spun, and sank the point of his sword directly between the middle vertebrae, through the stomach, and out the other side, before landing in perfect form with thoughts solely on discerning the execution of its remaining query.

Found.

Two of the rear members had already pushed forward at the sight of the initial charge, having already pulled their own pieces forth, and ready to fire. Additionally, the other two had pulled the lead man back, with hopes of shielding and allowing his escape.

Foolish.

In less than a heartbeat, Scott pushed forward before thought could invoke action, and lopped the heads from their necks and was past before they could separate.

Like a demon, he barreled forward, sword in his right hand held back, with his left arm stretched out as though to provide a counter weight for precision movement and striking, which he proceeded to demonstrate by whipping it to the side as a means to draw the blade closer to his own body, and use the centrifugal force to bring the blade across his opponents' midsection, spilling their intestines upon the dirtied, garbage strewn alley, planting the blade through the both before using the gathered momentum to land the finishing blow upon the leader.

Strange.

As he planned, he indeed landed the blow upon him. But just before the strike it felt as though an energy build up on the wind wrapped bands about his arm. Even then, the blow received carried through the opponent's body… but met no resistance. No flesh, bone, nor space in-between… just nothingness.

Whatever.

For in the view of the red blood pulse imagery, the great conflicting pulse waves were subdued, the clash of their pulses against his own and the generated instinctual hatred of each and every intersection. Now, unlike the before, where each adversary's heart added additional interaction with ever beat, there was only that of two, whereas against the black hazed backdrop, there were the six fading from self-definition and solely replaced by that of his pulse and the man in the leather jacket, who now lay spread limply upon the ground before him, pulses diminished and fading… just as the others had before.

Odd.

While with each kill there seemed to be an ejection of faded white misted shadows of their former selves, there was also one before him now, though from a man still of the living. Also, unlike with the others, there seemed to be a long trailing connection between spirit and body.

A link? Well, whatever it was, it seemed to annoy him, and with that, he let the sword fall downward from his hand… severing that very connection.

It was truly over.

* * *

Scott closed his eyes as though to block the memory derived from just seeing his hand… what a mirror may do to him as he was now, he shuttered to think. 

Yes, standing alone in the alley, not really knowing what he had done or why it had unfolded at all. To be dying one minute, to be suffering with all the pains of death and yet to be standing with renewed life and purpose the very next minute, or however long it was between, he didn't care.

Glad that that night was behind him, he leaned back in his seat only to wince in pain. He moved wrong, and put a hand to his abdomen in response, resting it atop a very familiar looking leather jacket and his blood soaked shirt underneath. As it happened to work, it was this pain of living that awoke him from his state of fury those hours ago.

He smiled through the pain.

It was funny how some things worked like that, as the memories of before came back to him once more.

* * *

The masked man, who until the moments before bore the name of Scott Taylor, seemed to regard the small world of the alley with contemplating scrutiny. 

Beside him, the sword from before also seemed to contemplate existence and the cycles of life and death, as the blood of the six men and its wielder mixed together in mute silence of the post skirmish, for what did blood have to do but flow along the blade? For that matter, what job was it of a sword's to be sentient at all? Did it even have the right?

With no more pulses save his own, the need for alertness diminished to non-existence, causing the mask upon his face began to dissolve on its own and recede into the face of the one who bore it, the complex world of crimson slowly fading back to the world of normalcy. Though it was hard to think that anything could possibly have such a tie to the word 'normal' again.

Even so, with the mask's disappearance, a world of feeling returned to him, acquainting him with the shallow, albeit, incredibly fresh and painful wounds upon his arm and abdomen… as well as the incredible chill of the elements. Unable to stand, he fell to his knees beside the cold and unmoving body of his provoker, whom looked to have succumbed to death without even a scratch.

Somehow it didn't seem fair.

At least, thought Scott, it did him the favor of promoting his attire… taking both his jacket and shoes, which just happened to be almost a perfect size coincidently. What's more, using the torn shirt pieces, he was able to fashion makeshift bandages for his injuries.

Overall, it wasn't much improvement, but as he couldn't afford hospital fees, and more importantly wanted to avoid involvement with authority representatives, it was pretty good considering…

Now then…

He flexed his hands and tested the integrity of his dressings. Satisfied, he prepared to leave the alley, lest he be caught and tried for his murders, justified as they were.

But…

His concern rest in that sword. Not only that it was incriminating evidence, but also its supernatural origin. That and its strong presence… one of…

Katrina?

Was that even possible? No… what he had just done was impossible… and he was certain that she had been there earlier, walking past. If that was truth then could this be truth also?

Just the thought alone pained him. Not so much as the possibility, but that such a pure and kind soul-bearing girl like her could manifest in the form of such a cruel weapon of death. That and its very appearance. The initial manifestation form and this form were different, the patterns of gold and silver flowing past each other over the black base. As though it was truly living. Yet despite that, the blade bore an edge worn beyond the effect of this fight alone, with various dents and a jagged affect achieved through many exchanges… almost as though its very existence spanned eons.

This… and that mask.

What was it… truly?

He put his hands to his face. When it came, he could no longer breathe, and his face hurt. The very surface of that thing clenched his mouth closed, and sat atop his very eyes. Yet he could hear his voice, his thoughts echoed aloud. And he could see something though his eyes were glazed over.

Just what was going on… and just where would this all lead… he didn't understand any of it.

He bowed his head towards the ground, tired, sore, and somewhat lost.

"Katrina," he whispered to the air, "why is it… why did you leave me here, when I wanted to go with you?"

He closed his eyes. He already knew it was pointless to ask. Even given the bizarre circumstances of the day, nothing would bring the dead back to life. Glancing in the direction away from the sword and down the blood strewn alley was the proof of it all.

The proof of the line separating the living and the ones beyond it.

He sighed and was just about to stand when a warm wind stayed his motion. Warmth of that air in this season was something apart from nature.

"That is…"

He froze. That voice…

"Because you are…"

It couldn't be…

"…needed."

His breath caught in his throat. But looking up, it wasn't a lie, it was only truth.

"Ka… Katrina…"

Just behind the sword, bathed in a golden radiance of unmistakable purity, she seemed to stand upon the air, her long hair fanning out behind her though the air itself was calm and unmoving. Like the image before, she wore a white, silken nightgown that flowed around her.

To his eyes, she was beauty incarnate.

But something seemed wrong. That softness… that smile he so longed for, was gone and replaced with a steely aspect and unemotional presence.

"Katrina…?"

It was almost… as though she wasn't happy to see him.

"Husband…" the words emitted were empty of life and sent a chill through his spine. Was this really her? It was unmistakable, yet…. She lifted a hand and pointed across the river, at least that was his initial thought. "Follow the setting sun, to search the answers only your eyes can ascertain truth. Find the land where the sun forever rises, and there the knowledge shall define your existence, as well as your path to take."

"Katrina…"

Her words seemed so cold and emotionless, but it was her, there was no question in that.

"I shall accompany your travels, for the truth requires that you understand my part as well."

"Alright, Katrina." He had found his resolve. If she were with him, he'd descend into the burning hells so long as they were together. "We'll go… into the west."

With that, she gave a curt nod as the first light of morning peeked over the horizon, and proceeded to fade into it, as well as the sword beneath her, as they proceeded together into the nothingness of dawn.

Leaving it to him to make the first steps alone.


	3. Path of the Setting Sun

Chapter 3: **Path of the Setting Sun**

Scott yawned tiredly as he tried his best to find comfort against the cold bricked wall against which he sat.

On and off, for the last three days he had traveled non-stop, from one bus to another, only pausing here and there to get the necessities of life. Food, water, and of course… money. But it was because he had none at all that he had established quite a following for himself. For wherever he went, a trail of crimson seemed to bathe his wake. A trail of pain and suffering that had made him well renown throughout all media channels and broadcasts.

A masked killer.

A lone wolf that preys upon anyone and everyone.

A threat to all living.

At least that's what they claimed… he felt it a bit of an exaggeration. After all, his only targets were those who reminded him of home. Those select few who spent their lives preying upon others, innocent or not, it didn't matter who, after all… he wasn't some kind of hero figure. He just knew that their existence wouldn't be missed. Although…

The other day he definitely furthered his mistakes… by killing an officer of the law.

Must have been undercover or something, but was among the victims before he knew it, not that it would matter anyways. So long as his 'blood haze' is in effect, then anyone and everyone caught in his path can consider their lives forfeit. Anytime his mask, which he was beginning to accept more and more, arrived upon his face he would kill all in his path. It was his madness… his pain.

His hunger.

It was a hunger. There was no better way to describe it. And it was one that was increasing.

But every time… what could he do but suffer through it? Even though the hunger exists, it clings to him… devours him… becomes him...

_Damn It, Katrina…_

She told him to follow the setting sun for answers, yet only questions filled him. Big questions, small questions, important and obsolete questions… questions and thought, thought and wonder… confusion and disorder and all things in between. Just thinking about thought was maddening even apart from his true form of madness.

His true form…

One of the biggest questions he had… was along that same line. His true form. What was it anyway, that mask?

It arrived on his face through his skin, a hardness lurking just beneath the surface, though to say it was underneath didn't make sense because there was nothing to feel, nothing to indicate that it was truly there at all. That and the vision he received with it… the ability to see the world through the blood radiance of others, that 'pulsed' into that world with every beat of their hearts, almost as though an advanced form of echo-location used by bats, who see by hearing… crossed with a type of infrared. Then there was the voice… a disembodied voice that came from his head and leaked into the world through the power of the mask. A voice that could only come out that way, as his mouth was locked in place, held firm when the mask came into being.

Was that his true form… or his other form? Was his truth himself or the weapon he felt he had become?

Was he truly the monster the media lay claim to?

Too many questions… too many answers missing.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned back. In truth, he didn't like remaining in one place for longer than an hour, but it was unfortunate that his last 'collection' of resources took longer than expected, and caused him to miss his bus out.

So here he sat. The bus ticket office closed for the night… his timing sure did suck. But luckily enough for him, the area in which he decided to wait was a covered one. The bricks were a bit cold, but considering his years past, he was used to bricks by now.

After all, he was a child of the streets.

That and natural instinct from all those years alone did nothing to discourage him from one or two let downs along the way. He was used to it after all… he was used to a lot of things.

He felt he was used to too much.

He sighed.

Truly life certainly didn't get easier as you got older… the elders from the alleys had that much going for them.

Just the stray thought of it took him back.

* * *

From as early as he could remember, he—without a name or even a memory—lived solely on the streets. 

Certainly, it was well known truth to him that there had to have been a time of when he had the support of another, for no matter how strong-willed the fire of spirit, to be abandoned at birth is akin to death itself. Though whatever the truth behind that, he was certain it was knowledge forever lost to him. Not that he cared.

Most likely, his birth was one of common place. The union of whore and one-night stand was the most likely of possibilities. Where he had gone from birth to where he was now was simply a mystery. One perhaps that his very existence was a government provided meal-ticket for the poor, and the only thing that saved him from abortion was the sad promised check for child care. Born for the sole purpose of playing the pawn… an excuse to leech off the system.

He supposed the promise of a kind adoption was simply unworthy… perhaps his expulsion due to that of a younger sibling and the restriction of the law towards multiple children. Though whatever the case, his existence as a person was meaningless and his own path existed on the outside. Always on the outside.

However, unlike most kids on their own, who huddled together or strived forward in groups and 'packs', he chose the lone route simply because human beings just didn't seem… well, human. Though they were still necessary all the while, for purposes of panhandling of the nice ones, and thievery from the uncaring.

Although, all in all, not everyone was bad.

Since school—given his particular public standing—was out of the question, he had to rely on those who without homes and without anything better to do, to teach him the basics of life. Most was honest company, though more advanced figures demanded the exchange of goods, though easily enough obtained.

However… as it was, those teachers didn't last long.

Whether accepted back into society, or accepted into death… they'd leave him time and again. But even with the demise of one, there was always at least another to take their place.

Friends… friends didn't exist. In truth, they were a luxury only for those who could afford them. Not needed for survival, and certainly not worthy of the price. Yet above it all, comfort and solace could be found with the rise of each morning's sun, for each day was a new lease on life… and one more proof to the strong that they made it through the night to the next day… though for some, it was solely the darkness that truly accepted them.

And so it was… his way of living. On rumors he heard his news, though he could read, newspapers never seemed to relay the truth of this world. He learned wisdom when he could. Found shelter where shelter provided, came upon clothing when luck supplied it, and survived on a day to day basis as best as he could… alone. Always alone…

At least, until that day… when he met 'her'.

It was on a particular stormy night, the fourth night of a series of storms that forced him to find a new form of shelter, lest he be taken by the storm itself.

Huddled for warmth among the rafters of an abandoned warehouse, where what little heat still gathered, and just about to settle down for the night when a noise from below caught his attention. At least he had thought it to be a noise, though he couldn't seem to remember what exactly, but something seemed to call him.

Curious, he descended to investigate, and that's when he saw her for the first time.

Hell, it was the first time he saw anyone of that kind of combination.

Cold, wet, and shivering under a dirty blanket and some wadded newspapers was common… but the rest; her injuries, scars and cuts as though she had wrestled with a barbed wire fence, a youthful appearance like his, but the most beautiful, even as she was. That, all that and her eyes. Her timeless eyes... eyes that he felt he could get lost in and never find his way back… though back to what and why the exchange, he couldn't even think rational thoughts to describe it. Whatever it was about her, it was unexplainable.

Everything else was just an aside… a layer of dust on a statue of purest gold… nothing that would hide the truth in value.

She was perfect.

* * *

Perfect… 

But at what cost was perfection achieved? She certainly changed his life, from that day forth. Together they were… inseparable. Their eventual acceptance into the Taylor home. He was given a name other than "boy" or "kid" or simply "you", though not surprisingly, she had arrived with a name: Katrina Ann.

Not long ago, after years together, did they wed, though underage.

They were a perfect couple.

_Perfect. _

And then she died… without cause or warning of indication. Mysterious death.

And now, she was back… and he was changed because of it.

The cost of perfection… was it supposed to be this sinister? He shook his head.

If he kept thinking along those lines, he may lose what little hope there was for an answer to it all.

At least that was a possibility.

Whatever the case, he had to make sure not to attract anymore attention in this place, and quietly slip out on bus in the morning. That and try to stay awake…

It seemed as though his long night had just begun.

* * *

Scott wasn't sure of the time when he awoke, or that he had even slept, considering what little strength he had. Though from what he could see, it was likely morning, due to the intense blanket of fog that obscured his vision. 

Or was it fog at all?

It was the wrong weather for such a thick blanket of fog considering there wasn't enough daytime heat to cause it. That… that and it seemed to burn his eyes, something that he didn't associated with fog in the past. And the warmth of it… since when was fog warm like this?

Perhaps… smoke maybe?

It did hurt his lungs, as it was difficult to breathe in, yet it didn't throw him into a coughing fit as it should. Instead it felt like shards of glass. A glass haze of sorts… even that seemed preposterous.

Whatever the case, he couldn't sit here and wait for it to pass him by. He had to move forward.

With that, he took a step and nearly lost his balance as his foot slid on the sand beneath him.

Sand…

Why the hell would there be sand… and since when was he on his feet?

It was too odd to discern, other than that he was no longer at the station he had fallen asleep at. But the explanation for why and where seemed an impossibility in itself. Given the pieces of fact and the scattered glimpses of the reality around him... was this a dream? But to feel so real...

Whatever.

Right now, standing still would be more a hindrance to truth than supportive to conjecture. And considering how much he hated uncertainty...

He took another step forward, a hand to his face so as to shield his eyes from the particles. Just as before, his feet eased into the soft sandiness of the ground beneath him that he could only guess to be desert, though he had never actually been to one.

Such a pain... if only he could see.

No... he could. To shield his eyes and yet see...

To see...?

That's right, he didn't have to. All he had to do was bring out his... mask?

But to do that—such a thing—it wasn't within his ability as yet. Only when absolutely necessary. Only when he needed provisions to move forward in his pursuit of whatever lay west, only in times... only when Katrina was present.

Katrina...

To think that such a thing relied solely on her, being it that she was the one responsible for him being whatever he was. But even that wasn't fair. Especially when a part of him felt as though she had nothing to do with it, and he brought it all on himself.

All himself...

Damn it all... if only he could see, then none of this would mat—ter?

At that thought, at that moment... just when he really wanted to, he noted that upon closing his eyes there was something different. Something more than what he was used to.

Something white. A whiteness against the darkness of what lay behind closed eyes. In a way, something about it was similar to another method of seeing. That's right, just like the crimson world of the mask; this presented a splattering of white against the greater black. However, not randomly splattered, instead it swirled through the blackness, moved within it.

Uncertain, and with his arm shielding his eyes, he opened them cautiously.

It was true... his sight hadn't lied, because he saw the same thing here... though along with everything else he couldn't truly see in the first place.

It was frustrating, but he could see something!

A world that was a world, yet one that lay submerged in an overwhelming darkness that he couldn't describe otherwise. Along with that darkness, was a white radiance that seemed to permeate the darkness from every aspect... whether it be the ground beneath him, the sand in the air, or even the dune before him... it-

Dune?

He closed his stinging eyes to the relentless of the blowing sand and looked forward in the world of the contrast. It was true... though not easily explainable, that somehow, in someway... he knew that the white mass apart from the blizzard of white streaking around him was actually land, and not airborne. That it was in fact what it was, though without him really knowing why.

Without clear reason, this was the truth of this world. A world of white and black, but a world he could see, for he could see clearly.

Like that, he staggered forward—feet slipping in the sandy terrain—up the face of the dune before him, despite the sandstorm that raged around him. Without knowing—just acting—he pressed forward. Perhaps to test... perhaps just to see without the sand, it didn't matter, just so long as he reached his goal—though what lay beyond the goal was just as uncertain as the impulse driving him toward it.

That aside... since his acknowledgement of the new vision, it seemed to improve with every moment's passing. More than the blood-haze, which hid detail in favor of generalize absolutes of being, this worldly view gave scope and distance as well as the detail within. Truly it was like second sight—one that offered almost more detail than regular sight... if such was possible.

Then again... if so, then it was also true that the storm was behind him, or rather—according to the whitened river that swirled about his feet at top of the dune—it was beneath him. Either way, to confirm this, he opened his eyes.

It was true...

From what he could see now from atop the dune, the storm of sand still raged about his lower half and below. While around him...

What was it?

Wherever he was—a desert for certain—it was unlike his usual conception.

Instead of vast plains of sand and desert cacti, sage brush, and other wasteland flora, this plain was devoid of what could be called life. Where instead of plants, weird crystalline formations resembling trees dotted the area and rock formations occupied large portions of the un-stormed rolling hills of white sand plainly visible in the moonlight. What's more, this was not a cold desert environment for night, instead being very warm and radiant as though the middle of a scorching day. That and... a feeling not of Earth.

Yes... certainly not of the Earth, since the air here was so welcoming once open and not choked with sand. It was not a dry air... but very breathable... and strangely energizing. All that, and he could still see the white-imaging even though his eyes were open. Even in darkness it was day.

So weird. None of this made sense.

Why was he here? What was he supposed to be doing and how does he get back?

All those questions and more were constantly washing across his overwhelmed mind. Surely there was a purpose to all this. Surely there was—

He stopped.

Suddenly, his legs were weak and his breath stolen. Something in the air was overwhelming... pressingly vicious.

He couldn't take it any longer.

With shaken legs, he collapsed to his knees atop the dune, the swirling storm beneath him dissipating and dying, as though it too was suffering a lack of breath. It too was over-burdened...

Unable to keep his balance from the pressure, he fell forward and down the side of the dune, where he slid/tumbled for several moments before coming to rest at the bottom. Where upon stopping, he found the answers he sought... just beyond the subsiding airborne sands as they drifted around him.

Unable to be seen within the darkness of the night, were creatures composed entirely of darkness, made visible only by using the "second sight", better termed "layered sight", as it displayed everything the first layer did not. In any respect, upon keen observation against the whiteness that permeated everything, were beings that blended with the natural darkness... two—no, three—of these creatures moved in what looked to be decisive and tactical exchange. Two of the shadows quickly approached the third, which seemed clearly slower than those that bore down upon it.

Or was that the case?

As shadows, beings comprised of what looked as nothing but living abyss and dark matter, it was difficult to discern their true movement. Slow could equal guard. Fast could represent carelessness or strength. Either was possible. Either was difficult to ascertain accurate.

Uncertainty aside, as the last of the sands settled, truer forms of the shadows could be deciphered from the interference. Where parts that looked thinner before were instead equipped with solid white parts and appendages... as well as...

...white... masks?

Unconsciously, he moved his hand to his face. It was still a human face. He did not have his own mask on. But... it was clear in what he was seeing. Masks. Like that of his own.

In a way, whatever this was, he felt he was a step closer to the underlying truth of himself. But in another he had no idea.

If they were like him, submerged in darkness... he looked at his hands, they were still normal hands. If he was like that... wouldn't he know it?

Still, despite everything he felt in regard to what they were in relation to his own being, he could not look away. In all his own savagery towards other humans, he did not image that it could compare to this now.

More beast than human, these armor adorned shadows ripped and tore at each other with unmet fury and intensity.

Limbs... armor... body parts... All these things and more were torn asunder and tossed about, yet upon closer observation, nothing seemed missing in the first... as though regenerated without latent concern or consideration to a prior existence. What's more, only those of the two attacking shadows were taking any damage at all, while the third seemed completely unscathed, though its armor was lacking the most.

Lacking... or was it? Though he could only see a far off mask against the greater black, no matter what kind of attack, no hits seemed to land at all. It was strange. That and no apparent attac—wait.

Something was different.

All of a sudden, a light had caught his eye. A... golden light?

It couldn't be... not here. Not in this place.

There. The light came again, only this time in multiple beams, which connected square with one shadow and sent it reeling. With a loud impact, it slammed into the dune beside him, unmoving, while the other shadow closed in on the defending one of before... or was it? Whatever the reason, it seemed to be different now. Changed.

Like it had... more armor?

With that thought on hold, the charging shadow was caught by the other, and cleaved in two by a beam of light that was different from the beams before, as this time it came from the defending shadow itself.

Too many questions. Too many circumstances of confusion.

Shadows with masks... golden light produced from only one source he could think of. Shadows fighting with each other. Two defeated. One lying next to him unmoving, the other long since disappeared after being cleaved. And the shadow from before... it...

...it was looking his way.

He stopped. Was it... really?

Then...

It raised its hand outstretched. Something white gleamed on its palm. And beside it, a figure that stood in the darkness unmoving. A woman with long flowing brown hair. A woman with a sword.

_Katrina..._

And just beside her... was the shadowed being from before, as it looked to the distance. A shadow... one that bore a very familiar mask.

_His._

And at that, a crimson pulse came from beyond the horizon, as well as from his own body. A body that weakened in pulse, as an abysmal blackness overtook his chest, and began to swallow him... as his mask seized his face. And the world...

...his world...

...disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Scott opened his eyes with a start and just about fell over as he slid from the wall behind him. 

Wall...

He was back at the bus station. He was back from the dream.

No... was that a dream?

He looked at his hands and then toward his chest, just to make sure it was there, before taking some calming breaths.

Once settled, he shook himself of the last lingering images from his dream... as well as the vision of whiteness that hung over his closed eyes, before setting off on his continued path.

The path of the setting sun.

* * *

A/C (2/7/07): Sorry for the delay... and I apologize for all the partial confusion there at the end... but I decided to just get it out and done so I can move on. Delaying for the sake of perfection gets tiresome after a while. 


	4. Continued Pursuit

Chapter 4: **Continued Pursuit**

The sound of waves crashing against rock resounded loudly in the chilled air of twilight of this Pacific shore. The smell of salt was thick in the air and heavy on the offshore winds, while the sight was just as overwhelming. A sight of a vast expanse of water that lay farther than that of the seen horizon... a blazing orb of reddish-hued sun, sinking into that very horizon's depths.

A setting sun. It was always setting.

He sighed as he lifted himself from the dock railing he was leaning against, the feel of failure heavy, and the realization of a promise sinking into the sea.

He had traveled across the expanse of the United States, pursuing even the smallest meaning of Katrina's words, yet had found nothing. He was no closer to understanding his destination than he was to understanding himself... or even the nature of his dreams. Dreams which had revealed segments of truth to what he was, but in essence, only served to bring about more questions.

What he was... he had thought about it a lot. He thought about it almost as much as he thought of Katrina, and what she was. What she really was.

A sword... a weapon? Or was the weapon something of his own creation, and he was only creative in the presence of the lingering ghost of his wife? A ghost... that even if she was a ghost and untouchable to emotions and contact, he never wanted to leave. That if it came to that action, he'd forfeit his life for the ability to follow her.

He never wanted to be without her again.

But... right now, she wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't any closer to truth than he was the land of the rising sun... wherever it was. And Katrina, standing beside him as usual, never leaving, never displaying emotion or notion of life... was doing nothing as usual. If only she'd give a hint or clue to their destination... but she didn't do much of anything. She wasn't even looking at him.

It was just as well. It wasn't good when she did talk, because he usually answered without hesitation... even in crowds. He had gotten so used to her beside him; he nearly forgot that he was the only one who could see her, and made himself to be as crazed as he looked.

He chuckled to himself as he thought about it.

It was as if he was in love with a hallucination... and in that perspective as when as the truth, if was quite sad.

Whatever... he had long given up on caring.

"Katrina..." he whispered softly to her spirit. Though no one was around anyway, it wasn't necessary to talk any louder. "What are you thinking about... what do you know that you can't tell me?"

He waited for a moment, as he waited for a reply from the unmoving, unblinking image of his wife as she stared out into the sunset. It was a quiet night, and no troubles had found him of late. In that respect, her calm demeanor was apropos of the peace.

But even so, he wished she would speak to him... even if it was with her eyes. But in this end, she didn't even look at him.

_So long as... she's with me right?_ He asked himself before he sighed again, staring along with her into the sunset.

Into the sunset—? No, past it.

He looked back to the actual land and then back towards the sea.

_It couldn't be..._

Or was it? Her silent and longingly empty gaze wasn't simply her ignoring him, but giving him answer to the question he posed. That the destination—his and hers—was still out there... to the west and somewhere across the sea.

Across the sea...

He clenched his teeth together at the thought. This wouldn't be as simple as bus fare.

"Well, Katrina," he whispered softly to the air. "Let's go."

Without so much of an acknowledgment, she turned from her sea-staring position and followed him from the dock to the land beyond.

It was going to be a busy night.

* * *

Hours later, in the dim lighting of the cellar bar-turned-drug ring, the blood that stained the edges of Katrina's blade was already dry to the point of flaking.

He'd been lucky tonight.

What might have seemed an impossible task to assemble the needed finances before practically fell into his lap after following the right individual. Though not as much money as what is rumored in media drug transactions, it was still an amount that dwarfed all previous acquisitions of funds. With this, he might be able to reach his goal without bloodying his hands more than necessary.

With this it might be possible to discover that which his life was devoid. He might find an answer to the question. Then again... given the infamy he was generating across the states, if he didn't find a viable solution to his dilemma, he might find death.

As punctuation to the dark note in his mind, he kicked over the last free standing table that had survived the massacre of before and scattered the contents of whatever packages had been left untouched prior. Where the now broken packs of coke, meth, and whatever else had been part, a flash of a 2-D hologram caught his eye. He picked it up on whim of curiosity.

A ticket?

He dusted it off and held it under one of the yet unbroken lights that lined the bar.

A cruise ticket... round way ticket to Tokyo, Japan.

_Japan?_

He rolled the word in his head. It sounded familiar... but he couldn't place its location. Even the street teachers he studied under didn't teach everything. Though if memory served him correctly, it was somewhere across the ocean. The Pacific Ocean.

He'd take it.

* * *

A salty sea air was his only physical companion as he watched the shrinking coastline from the stern deck not even twenty four hours later.

For all that he hadn't known, he was able to move about successfully enough. Though taken back by his immediate appearance, he was fortunate that the importance of secrecy concerning the deal and the nature of the traveler was enough for him to be accepted aboard without suspicion. For the first time in a while, he didn't even have doubts or the perception of fear. It was just the first step on the unsteady path that he felt any real confidence about.

However, that was then. Now, he felt as though his home country was disappearing behind him, though as unwelcome he had become there, he had a lingering feeling that this would be his last time to set eyes upon it. It was a lonely feeling.

He sighed to himself as he closed his eyes upon the sight that would soon disappear forever, then turned his back so as to not open them upon the sight again. Yes, he would face the same direction as his beloved Katrina... for that was all that mattered to him now.

She was all that would ever matter.

* * *

Five days later, he lay in his extravagant bed staring at the ceiling. He was beyond bored now, and the activities of other guests hardly concerned him.

It was alright for the first two days, in which he practically slept through. The third day was so-so, and same for the fourth... but he couldn't sleep any longer, though it was safe to assume that the finest state he had ever been in was the one he would never see again, so he had tried his best to maximize the return, but to no avail.

He couldn't do it anymore.

At first he tried to press answers from Katrina, but whether from weakness or just her being difficult, he was unable. And sitting around wasn't going to improve his understanding. He had to get out. Where didn't matter, so long as it was out.

Anywhere was fine with him. He'd just let his feet carry him.

Soon enough, he found himself out of the lower decks. As it was late into the early morning, and a little colder than the season, it was perfectly devoid of people. The air crisp and much purer than any air he had been used to thus far in his life, he let it fill his lungs deep before watching his exhalations hang dancing upon the air before dissipating among the star-filled sky.

It was peaceful here. If only Katrina and he had been here when alive... he would have held her warm until the sunrise. The only two alive to the world.

He gripped the deck rail hard as he clenched his teeth together.

How it pained him. To see her yet not be able to touch her as one would touch another human. That she was so close yet still so far. And that she wouldn't give cause or explanation was driving him mad with anguish!

_Katrina..._

He stopped in his thought. Just then a sound on the air caught his attention. He closed his eyes and let himself slip into the vision of red—an aspect of his mask that he had come to control with practice—which wasn't so red at all. Instead, the blackened world was only mildly splashed with the red pulses that were otherwise muffled by the ship or his own pulse. But its message was definitely clear.

He was the only provider... even though he knew instinctively that he wasn't alone.

Knowing this, but unsure, he opened his eyes again and turned about slowly to act natural, and leaned up against the rail as he pretended to look across the deck towards the upper decks. As he did so, his eyes confirmed what his senses could not. A less than solid representation of a human, which his mask would be sure to recognize as a faded white shadow. Of course there was no pulse.

This girl was dead.

All the more evident on a closer look was the severed chain link that hung loosely from her chest... and actuated by the fact that she simply wasn't dressed for the weather in her swimming suit. It was a fact that made her presence all the more tragic.

By the look of her, it was easy to understand even without knowing. A young girl of around seven, having died while in her swimsuit, and being alone... obviously due to drowning either by the on deck pool or more tragically—off the side of the ship. More likely the latter since her spirit remain behind instead of traveling elsewhere.

Not that he knew where souls went to begin with. Not that he could offer any help to the deceased save by giving them company.

He shook his head in amusement and went back to looking over the dark ocean. Whatever her reason for being out, it was obvious that she wasn't a worry worth the effort. Perhaps in ignoring her she'd go back to wherever.

"It's nice... isn't it?" she asked softly as she leaned against the lower rails. She didn't even bother to look up because her words didn't seem to have any particular focus. "I like this view as well."

He frowned. Was that level of reflection and relation to another's typical of a young age?

"It's not often that I get company out here... I'm pretty bored... and tired... and lonely." She said softly. "That when the world is sleeping I feel the need to be awake. If only I was different when I had the chance to be.

"It's too bad..."

"No." he said softly to the sea. "It's depressing."

She gaped up in shock. Completely convinced that he wasn't seriously talking to her but not hiding the surprise of the possible coincidence either.

He looked down. "Can you be depressing elsewhere?"

"You can see me?"

"Plainly."

"Really?" she asked with a tear in her eye. "I'm glad."

He nodded once and looked away. His people skills were lacking enough with the living. It was completely unreasonable to assume he had any with the dead.

However, it seemed like she was the one to take the initiative.

"Yoko!"

"Hm?"

"My name..." she said quietly as she also looked over the ocean. "It means 'Sun Child'."

He frowned. "In what language?"

"Japanese. My mother's language." She said as she became saddened.

"I see." He said quietly. "Scott."

"Okay."

There was a moment's silence as a tear rolled down her cheek as she remained in thought.

"Are you an angel, Scott?"

He smiled out of the humorless thought. "No. Such things don't exist."

"Because you've never seen one?"

"No, because the beautiful exist only to kill more efficiently... that we would be only so fortunate to meet a more merciful demon."

"Then... you'll kill me?" she asked without fear. Her level of maturity staggering. "It wouldn't be such a bad thing." She held onto the sole link that remained connected to her chest plate. "This was that much longer those eight years ago... to a point that it was binding."

"I see." So she was only a couple years younger than him? It explained a lot. That the two should meet... was it not because he had something to do?

She held onto the link as though it caused her pain. Tears welling in her eyes as her thoughts focused on the situation at hand.

"I... it just hurts so much now... if it were to get even smaller—?"

"Then it would simply be that much harsher of a fate waiting."

Both turned to the new voice, the flat and toneless female voice that cut through the air yet did nothing to indicate its source. However, as the sound of footfalls upon the air sounded closer, fine tendrils of mist molded the familiar shape into existence. The ghostly yet alive image of the young enigmatic woman somehow at the root of it all.

"Katrina..." Scott whispered softly.

Seemingly unconcerned about anything else, Katrina continued on her statement from before as she reached out to the young girl-ghost's face with a gentle hand.

"A fate of a hollow... a fate that one wouldn't want to choose if given the option of choice."

"A hollow..." Yoko repeated softly, with no hint of want to retreat from the touch upon her face.

"One without a heart... one that thrives on instinct alone." She slid her hand from the girl's face and gently touched the plate on her chest, her other hand reaching out towards Scott, as though to grasp the air only, before seizing that which he never had seen before... a chain of fate.

"Wha-?" Scott uttered in surprise.

Yoko stared as she looked to the place of his chest where the plate would be, since she had yet to ever see a living person with a chain at all... because why would there be a chain if the soul was attached? But when she looked she saw nothing... but emptiness.

However, what was with his chain? The way it wrapped around him... bound him. Not attached but not separate either...

"I don't understand..."

"I wouldn't expect it. But his fate is not like the others of his kind. Not yet." Katrina looked sad for a moment before it was gone again. "Though like his kin... he only has an ability to destroy. As do I."

Scott narrowed his eyes. Though he didn't understand everything, he had learned something about himself that he didn't know before. And the chain that was invisible before was now clearly before him. It made sense with all the things before.

Somehow.

Yoko on the other hand, didn't look upset as one might believe her to become, but instead looked as though she had reached a point of resolution. She had decided something.

"Then..." she placed her hand over her chest plate. "If it's like that..." she looked up sadly, but with a deeper longing in her eyes, "could you, destroy me?"

"If that is your wish..."

Katrina closed her eyes as her body began to lose substance. The familiar looking gold and black blade forming in the air between Yoko and Scott. Scott knowing it was time for him as well, as he reached out his hand, his world collapsing in crimson and faded sight as his mask seemed to melt out of his skin and onto his face, locking his jaw and submersing him in the all-too-familiar world of suffocation as his mask arrived on his face.

"Th-this is—?"

"Your destiny." Scott replied in his altered projected voice, his deep tone resonating in her head, as her eyes saw him take the blade between them.

"W-will it hurt?" Yoko asked with tears in her eyes. Her hands clenched on the ever throbbing chest plate that had caused her so much suffering already. She closed her eyes. "No... it doesn't matter."

"I wouldn't know regardless." He stated simply. "Prepare yourself."

She nodded, eyes still closed, as she removed her hands and lowered them to her sides.

"Thank you."

"Yeah." He pulled the blade back. "I'm coming."

She screwed her eyes shut as the full length of the blade thrust through her chest plate and out her back, shock doing nothing to dissipate the pain as a heart-wrenching scream tore from her lips, fragments of the broken plate slamming into the surrounding skin and a tearing feeling of being separated from the reality overwhelmed her entirely. Her hand stretching forward just as it began to break back into its elementary particles and her existence was dissipated into the night air, promptly disappearing altogether.

Whether it worked or not... the deed was done.

As in the vision, the last of the white faded away, and she was gone.

_A creature of destruction... eh?

* * *

_

Sometime later on, he had found his way back to his room and found himself lost to his thoughts.

In several more days, he would find himself in Japan... perhaps then he would find some answers. Perhaps he would find nothing. Either way... it's where he would be.

With enough thoughts on his mind, he fell asleep. There was always more to do tomorrow.


End file.
